Somehow, no matter how hard I try, my mind goes back to comparing me to her. You probably aren’t comparing the two of us but I am. When I am with you, I think about how her hands would’ve fit into yours, how she would’ve smelt when you lay next to her. I think about how she would’ve looked when you woke up next to her in the morning or how she would’ve felt when you cuddled and slept with her all night. I know it’s stupid for me to do this, but my mind won’t stop. When I am with you, I wonder how she must have done everything better than I do, how she would’ve looked walking around the room with you. I probably won’t ever be like her, at least not in bed. I know I need to stop thinking this, but for now, it’s stuck in my head.